


The Man in Interview C

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Assault, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Community: trope_bingo, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Coulson, he's a stripper, and you met him on a case. That's like every bad cop cliche ever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man in Interview C

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Maquis Leader for all her help.
> 
> This fills the "AU: Cop/Detective" square on my Trope Bingo Card.
> 
> **Trigger warning for non-graphic assault and attempted rape/noncon.**

 

Phil opened the door to Interview C and poked his head in. Sparing only a glance for the man slumped on the other side of the table, he caught his partner's attention. A quick flick of his eyes to the side had Sitwell rising and joining him in the hallway after a quick word to the other man.

"All right, Coulson, how we doing this? You wanna be good cop or bad cop?"

"Neither."

The tightness in Phil's voice had Jasper raising an eyebrow, and with a twitch of Phil's shoulder, they both walked back toward their desks in the crowded bullpen.

"The damn uniforms didn't even watch the security footage," he said quietly, anger and frustration simmering in his voice. "They just brought him in, didn't even listen to him. It's a waste of everyone's time."

They both stood together behind Phil's ruthlessly clean desk -- which looked directly onto Jasper's much less organized space -- while Phil brought the footage up on his monitor with a couple of quick clicks.

It was crystal clear, full color, everything easily visible in the well-lit parking lot.

"Good security," Jasper murmured, and Phil hummed in agreement.

"And yet, an assault occurred there anyway."

The lot was nearly empty, a beat-up muscle car and a shiny pickup truck near the perimeter, at the edge of the lights. As they watched, a figure stepped into the light from the back door of the club, slim and compact -- the man currently cooling his heels in Interview C -- with a backpack slung over his shoulder as he ambled tiredly toward the muscle car.

A tall, thin man with shoulder-length dark hair stepped out of the shadows and spoke to him, clearly startling him.

The smaller man -- Barton -- looked like he wanted to retreat, but he stood his ground, raising his hands to hold the other man off, his mouth moving as he answered.

Whatever he said enraged the taller man, and he lunged forward and sharply backhanded Barton, who swayed on his feet at the force of the blow. While he was still reeling, his aggressor grabbed for him.

A quick spin move on Barton's part had the taller man scrambling after him, grabbing him by the trailing strap of his backpack and pulling him back.

They both hit the ground and the struggle was brief and violent. The taller man went limp and Barton scrambled off him, hollering back toward the club. A dark-haired man with a prosthetic arm came running out, digging into his pocket for his phone, and Phil stopped the video.

The whole encounter took maybe a minute. Sitwell whistled, low and long.

"Kinda changes things up," he said, and Phil nodded once.

"We need a clear statement from him now that we know what really happened. Go back in there and sit with him for a minute; I'm going to see if we've made any more progress identifying the... suspect."

He'd gone from victim to suspect with the video evidence, and Sitwell noticed the change. He nodded before heading back toward Interview.

Phil updated his case notes and made a few quick email queries and fruitless phone calls before heading back into Interview.

The recorder was running but Jasper and Barton were simply staring at each other in silence as Phil slid into the chair next to his partner.

"Detective Coulson, Phillip J., entering interview," he said, rattling off his serial number. "Mr. Barton, thank you for your cooperation. There's just a few more things we need to go over."

"Whatever," Barton said, his voice smooth with just a hint of gravel, blurred around the edges with exhaustion -- and possibly, pain.

Phil took a moment now to get a good look at him, and instantly regretted it.

The man was gorgeously distracting, even with the beginnings of a black eye, and dried blood under his nose.

He wasn't a kid, which surprised Phil, given his job. His face showed experience, maturity, but it was no less handsome for it, and between that and his body, it was pretty clear how he kept that job.

His body, what Phil could see of it, was incredible.

The purple t-shirt he wore was dark with spots of blood, and it stretched tightly over his arms, chest, and shoulders, clinging to well-defined abs.

Clint Barton wasn't a big man, but he was... very fit.

His hair was short, dark blond, and messily spiked, and his eyes -- 

Phil carefully broke eye contact and looked down to straighten the files on the table before him. Barton's eyes were amazing, a stormy gray-blue with flecks of green and gold, and now was _not_ the time to be noticing that.

"I'm sorry to keep you here so late, Mr. Barton. I assure you this won't take long."

Those eyes flicked toward Sitwell. "Guess you're bad cop," he drawled.

"God, no, he makes a terrible bad cop," Phil said, and Jasper's glare was exaggerated, intended to help put Barton at ease. It was clear, however, that the man wasn't buying it.

"There are no tactics here, Mr. Barton," he continued evenly. "This isn't an interrogation. We just need to understand what happened tonight, as completely as possible. Can you tell us, from the beginning, what happened in the parking lot, and how you know the man who attacked you?"

His wording wasn't lost on Barton, who stared at him for a moment, those eyes piercing as he weighed and assessed the situation. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, and Phil nearly swallowed his tongue as the movement made all of the muscles in Barton's arms and upper body bunch and flex. He didn't break eye contact this time, but he could feel Jasper's sudden amusement beside him.

Dammit. His partner knew him -- and his type -- too well.

"I've already said what happened," Barton said, with much less exasperation in his tone than there had been previously. "Like five times."

"I know, and I'm sorry for making you repeat it again. We'd just like a clear description of events, in your words, from the beginning, please, for the record."

Barton tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling and Phil's gaze followed the strong line of his neck, lingered on the vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat, and he mentally slapped himself.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was in the middle of a case, in the middle of an _interview_ , for Christ's sake, and he was drooling like a frat boy! It hadn't been _that_ long since he'd last gotten laid.

He cut his gaze to the left, unsurprised to see Jasper raising an eyebrow at him. He sat up straight and took a deep breath, pulling himself together and slamming a lid on his libido.

"I'd just finished my first routine on stage," Barton began in a monotone, either bored with repeating himself or distancing himself from his words. "Rhodey -- that's the manager -- told me someone had paid for a private dance, so I went into one of the private rooms, and that asshole was in there. I introduced myself, flirted, gave him the little spiel, and he didn't even give me his name. Said he didn't pay for me to talk, he'd paid for me to dance. So I turned on the music, and started dancing."

He stopped to take a deep breath, and Phil very definitely did _not_ picture Barton's tight body writhing as he gave a lap dance. That would've been completely unprofessional.

"He grabbed me," Barton said angrily, and the budding fantasy fell apart in Phil's head. "One hand on my dick, the other groping my ass. That crap might happen in other clubs, but not in ours. I pulled away -- which hurt, by the way, since he was squeezing my junk -- and told him his dance was over and to get the fuck out."

"Were there any witnesses?" Phil interjected, and Barton bristled.

"No," he gritted out. "But I'm not lying -- "

"I didn't say you were," Phil said calmly. "I'm just clarifying. For the record."

Barton glared at him and then nodded stiffly.

"What happened then?" Jasper asked, encouraging him to keep talking.

"He started yelling. Did I know who he was, and I thought, 'no, asshole, because you didn't even give me your name,' and that he'd paid good money for me to dance, and he called me a fucking tease. Nothing I haven't heard before. A couple of the bouncers heard and came in and dragged him out once they'd heard what happened. I thought that was the end of it."

He took another deep breath, and his heavily muscled arms across his chest shouldn't have been able to make him look vulnerable, but somehow they did.

"I didn't expect him to be waiting for me seven hours later, when I finished my shift."

"The club was nearly empty by the time you left," Phil said, and Barton nodded and scrubbed his hands over his face, wincing when he hit the tender spot by his right eye.

"I stayed late to help Bucky close out and clean up the bar. It was only me and him and Sammy -- one of the bouncers -- when I left. I was walking though the parking lot and he just... came out of nowhere. He said I owed him a dance. I said I didn't owe him shit and to fuck off, and he went nuts. He hit me, tried to grab for me, and when I evaded, he pulled me back. We both went down, and he stayed down. That's it."

He stared at Phil, his eyes stormy with emotion, but there was no guilt in them.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," he said, "But I wasn't going to let him touch me again."

"Thank you, Mr. Barton, for being so clear about what happened. The other man is as-yet-unidentified, as he had no ID on him. He's been taken to the hospital and we're attempting to figure out who he is. Once it's been determined, do you wish to press charges?"

Barton's brow furrowed in confusion. "What? I thought I was the one getting arrested?"

"Video surveillance from the club appears to bear out your statement, and we'll work on getting additional statements from the employees who removed the man from the club earlier in the evening. It's clear to us that he was the aggressor and you were simply defending yourself."

Barton's gaze flitted from Phil to Jasper and back again, clearly searching for the trap in Phil's words.

"That's it?" he asked suspiciously. "No bullshit about how I must have led him on or that I should've expected it, given my job?"

Phil frowned, making a mental note to see exactly which uniforms had responded to the call so that he might have a word with their lieutenant. "I'm sorry you've had to deal with that attitude. No one deserves to be assaulted, regardless of their profession." 

The corner of Barton's mouth kicked up in a wry little grin. "Where the fuck are you from, Detective, Mayberry?"

Phil smiled back, just a little. "Chicago," he said easily, surprising himself with his honesty.

He registered Sitwell's surprise too, and Barton must have seen it, because he glanced between them again, and his grin disappeared.

Barton placed his hands on the table's edge and arched his back, stretching muscles that were probably tightening up on him now, and Phil kept his gaze firmly on the files on the table.

"No," Barton said. "I don't want to press charges. I just want this to go away."

He gestured at the darkening bruise on his face. "I can't work like this, and I'll be lucky if I don't lose my job over this."

Phil frowned. "Considering the attack happened on your employer's property, he may be held liable -- "

"What? No! That's bullshit, he's -- it's a great job and a great club, and he's a great boss -- believe me, I've worked in some shitholes, and this is miles above those dives. I could've walked out with someone, that's what we're encouraged to do, but..." 

He trailed off, looked down at his bloodied knuckles, and looked back up. "I can take care of myself."

"That much is clear," Jasper said.

"You shouldn't have had to," Phil added, and Barton smiled that little smile again.

"How are you real?" he said in amusement.

Phil looked down, fighting off embarrassment -- it was bad enough that the other detectives on his squad teased him endlessly about the natural optimism that even years on the force hadn't beaten out of him, and his love of superheroes.

"So... that's it?" Barton asked after a moment.

Phil glanced up again and caught his gaze, surprised by the frank way Barton was assessing him. He nodded.

"Yes, we'll have this record transcribed into a witness statement, and you'll be contacted in a day or two to come in and sign it. If you don't wish to press charges, that should be the end of it."

"Unless John Doe wishes to press charges," Jasper added, and Phil nodded in reluctant agreement.

Barton's face, which had been relaxing, tightened up again. "You mean I could still be arrested for this, depending on who he is."

"We'd have to listen to his version of events and examine the evidence further, and a decision would be made then," Phil told him. "It doesn't depend on who he is."

Barton's expression was nothing but cynical. "Right."

"This interview is concluded, record off," Phil said, switching off the recorder. "That's not going to happen, Mr. Barton," he said confidently, and Barton scoffed.

"You don't know that."

Phil said nothing, because there was nothing he could say. He didn't know who the other man was, and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd seen justice thwarted.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather case that held his shield. Extracting a business card, he handed it to Barton.

"If you have any questions, or you need anything, please don't hesitate to call."

Barton glanced from the card in his hand to Phil's face, expression unreadable, and Phil cleared his throat.

"Detective Sitwell has some paperwork for you to sign, and then he will take you to retrieve your belongings. Good night, Mr. Barton, and thank you again for your cooperation."

With a nod, he stood and headed for the door, ignoring the look on Jasper's face that said he clearly recognized Phil's exit for what it was -- fleeing.

"This way, Mr. Barton," Jasper said, and just as the door closed, Phil heard Barton ask, "Is there somewhere I can get cleaned up?"

Phil made his way back to his desk, doing his best to put Barton and his gorgeous eyes and his amazing body out of his mind so he could focus on his work.

One of his email queries had been answered, and he swore as he read the reply, smacking a fist on his desk. That drew the attention of a couple of his fellow detectives -- it wasn't exactly characteristic of Phil, but this time, he felt it was justified.

He pushed away from his desk. He needed coffee to deal with this bullshit.

Terrible break room coffee in hand, he returned to his desk. The first thing he did was read the reports filed by the uniforms who'd caught the call. He chose to despair over their spelling and grammar issues rather than the completely biased and subjective reports themselves -- it was better for his blood pressure. He attached the offensive reports and a copy of the surveillance footage to a strongly worded email to Lieutenant Hill, knowing she'd forward it to Lieutenant Johnson.

He was on his way to the men's room when he heard a familiar voice, and he paused to peek into the alcove that held the rarely-used payphone.

Barton stood with his back to Phil, battered backpack on one shoulder, dark leather jacket over his arm, speaking quietly into a cell phone.

"It's okay, Nat -- no, stay with Steve, I'll find a -- Tasha -- Tash -- Natasha! I'm fine, okay? I'm fine. I'll find a way home, and I'll text you when I get there. I'm okay, I swear, and -- hello?"

He stared at the phone and thumbed the End Call button, shoulders slumping with a sigh as he stared at the ground.

Phil scraped his foot on the ground and quietly cleared his throat. Barton whirled around, panic in his eyes that quickly faded, and Phil felt terrible for sneaking up on him, even if he hadn't meant to.

The man's face was clean now, dried blood cleared away, though his eye was quickly swelling and coloring up nicely. He hadn't been able to do much about the blood on his shirt, but it looked like he'd tried.

"Problem, Mr. Barton?"

He sighed. "I called a friend for a ride, but she's staying with another friend of ours, who's sick, and... all I did was worry her. And she's the kind of person who gets pissed if you make her worry, so..."

He trailed off with a grimace, and Phil bit down the completely inappropriate urge to offer him a ride home -- he was on duty, for God's sake, in the middle of his shift, not a high school kid offering to take his crush home after class!

"There's a taxi rank in front of the building," he said, gesturing toward the front desk. "And if there aren't any cabs, the desk sergeant will call one for you."

Relief flitted over Barton's face, and he grinned, lightning fast, quick and gone.

"You're just full-service, aren't you, Detective?" he said, and Phil could not be imagining the flirty tone of his voice.

He bit his lip to keep himself from saying something stupid like _Just doing my job_ , and his gut tightened at the way Barton's beautiful eyes arrowed in on Phil's mouth.

He settled for rolling his eyes and saying blandly, "This way, please."

Barton followed him down the hallway and Phil stopped short, barely avoiding a collision as his partner came barreling out of the bullpen.

"There you are. Did you see this email from -- " Jasper cut himself off, eyes widening as he caught sight of Barton just behind Phil.

"Yes," Phil said shortly. "I did. Let me show Mr. Barton to the desk and then you and I can discuss it."

Raised voices came from the front desk and both his and Sitwell's hands went to their service weapons. Barton tensed, hand squeezing the strap of his backpack more tightly.

"The hell?" Jasper muttered, proceeding cautiously but rapidly toward the noise.

A man was yelling, quickly but clearly, over the voice of Desk Sergeant Woo, who was trying -- unsuccessfully -- to calm him.

" -- false imprisonment, you have your heads up your asses if you think he's the guilty one, and I will sue the _hell_ out of this department -- "

"Oh no," Barton muttered, pushing between Sitwell and Coulson before they could stop him.

"Mr. Stark!" he said sharply, and the noise cut off.

Phil and Jasper stared at each other -- Stark was the owner of Iron Men, the club where Barton worked and had been assaulted, as well as half of the rest of the planet.

"Mr. Stark, what are you doing here?"

"Barnes called Rhodey who called me to tell me you'd been arrested for being attacked, which I'll admit is a novel one I haven't tried yet. I don't know what kind of bullshit police work is going on here, but -- "

"Mr. Barton is not under arrest," Phil cut in smoothly. "At this time, he is not a suspect. In fact, he was just heading home." He turned to Woo. "Any cabs out there right now?"

"Cab?" Stark laughed incredulously. "No. Come on, Barton, Happy'll drive you."

The surprise on Barton's face was clear, and Phil wondered if he'd even known Stark knew his name before this. "That's -- that's really not necessary, sir -- "

"The hell it's not. No employee of mine gets assaulted on my property and takes a damn cab home. Who's the asshole responsible for that, huh?" He waved at the bruise on Clint's face. "Where is he, why isn't he the one under arrest?"

Stark shifted his dark, angry gaze toward Phil. "You in charge? I want to press charges. I'm the owner of the property, I can do that, right?"

Phil glanced at Jasper, and his partner's mouth was set in a thin line of dismay.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Phil said calmly.

"What?" Stark snapped. "What the hell does that mean?"

Phil turned to Barton, hoping the man could see the frustration and apology in his eyes. "The man who attacked you has been identified as Loki Laufeyson. He's a high-level member of the Asgardian diplomatic corps."

"He has diplomatic immunity," Sitwell added. "He can't be charged."

"That's bullshit," Stark snapped. Barton's eyes were wide, his face set in outrage.

"You mean he just gets away with it?" Barton asked angrily.

Phil blinked at him. "I was under the impression you didn't wish to press charges anyway, Mr. Barton."

"Well, yeah, but that's when I thought it was up to me! I agree with Mr. Stark -- this is bullshit."

"I'm sorry. It's out of our hands."

Barton huffed in exasperation. "Figures," he said tiredly.

Stark was practically vibrating in his anger, dark eyes gleaming. "Let's get out of here, kid, they're useless."

Jasper glanced at Phil in wry disbelief -- Stark was maybe five years older than Barton, if that.

"And you're taking the week off with pay," the man added, and Barton stared at him, eyes wide.

"I -- "

"Can't go on stage like that, can you? Scare my customers away. Take the time, learn a new routine or something, keep yourself busy."

Without another word to anyone else, Stark turned for the door. "Let's go."

After a stunned moment, Barton turned to follow him, but he quickly turned back.

His gaze found Phil's, caught it, held it. He gave a tiny nod.

"Thanks," he murmured, and then he turned and followed Stark before Phil could respond.

Phil tried very hard to pretend he wasn't watching Barton's ass as the man walked away, but judging by the muffled snickers from both Woo and Sitwell, he wasn't trying hard enough.

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

Phil was just finishing his burger at lunch that Tuesday before the start of his shift when his phone rang.

He swallowed quickly as he picked it up. "Coulson."

"When's Laufeyson getting released from the hospital?"

Phil frowned at the demanding tone before the strident voice registered. "Mr. Stark?"

"When's that bastard getting out?"

"I don't know that information, and even if I did, I couldn't tell you, sir."

"He's not going to get away with attacking one of my employees on my property just because he can run home crying about it. He's a predator."

Phil sighed and looked sadly at his cooling fries. "I'm aware of that, Mr. Stark, and believe me, I don't like the fact that our hands are tied any more than you do, but there's nothing we can do."

"Nothing you can do, maybe."

Phil's internal alarms started shrilling, and he sat up straighter. "Mr. Stark," he said warningly, "Vigilante justice is not the answer -- "

Stark scoffed. "Please. I don't need to skulk in a dark alley to get to him -- I have lawyers. A ton of lawyers, highly trained in international law, and I have contacts. He might have immunity here, but he's fair game as soon as he's back home in Asgard. And if you can't tell me when that will be, we're done here."

He hung up and Phil stared at his phone for a second, bemused, before he shook his head, set the phone down and reached for a fry.

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

It was around 7:30 that Saturday night when Phil submitted the last of the paperwork to close a particularly grisly homicide he and Sitwell had spent the last sixty or so straight hours investigating.

He signed his name with a feeling of accomplishment -- _this_ was why he'd taken this damn job to begin with. He sat back in his chair and loosened his tie, watching Jasper knock back another 5 Hour Energy shot.

"That shit'll kill you," Phil told him, since he was pretty sure this was the eighth one the man had chugged down this shift, and Sitwell rolled his eyes.

"Either they will or Hill will when I fall asleep at my damn desk," he said with a yawn. His eyes widened and he sat up straight when Lieutenant Hill stepped out of her office.

She caught Phil's eye, nodded at Sitwell. "Great work on the Stevenson case, boys -- I just got a call from the chief's office, congratulating me on closing it so quickly, and you know Fury doesn't make those lightly."

"Thanks, LT," Jasper said with a tired smile.

"The two of you have anything hot right now?"

The two men glanced at each other and Phil shook his head. "No, ma'am. Paperwork, that's all. Nothing else can be followed up on until tomorrow or Monday."

"Go home. You both worked your asses off, get some rest."

Phil stared at her. "Ma'am?"

"Do I need to tell you boys twice?"

"No, ma'am!" Jasper said as he started clearing off his desk. The look he threw at Phil said, _shut the hell up, man!_

"Good night," she said, and she started walking through the bullpen toward the door. Halfway there, she turned. "Oh, a little bird in the chief's office told me Laufeyson's back home, and someone clued his higher-ups in on his international conduct. He's been grounded until further notice, all done very quietly. There won't be charges from either side in that case, so you can go ahead and close that one out too."

The anger Phil felt at Laufeyson walking away with no consequences could be explained by professional interest. The butterflies in his stomach at the mention of the case could not be explained away so easily. He ignored them. "Yes, ma'am. Okay if I close it out before I go? Won't take long, and we might as well get it off the books."

She eyed him shrewdly, and then her gaze shifted to Sitwell, who was doing his best to look blandly uninterested -- Phil could see humor dancing in his dark eyes, and glared at him.

"Fine," she said. "Don't take too long. We're already over budget this week with the overtime you two've put in."

She left, and Phil pulled up the appropriate files on his computer to close out the case. After working for a minute, he looked up. Jasper was sitting and watching him, with his hands laced behind his head and a smug smile on his face.

"What."

"You're going to go see him, aren't you?" His grin turned wicked. "You're gonna go watch him dance."

"What? No. I mean, someone should tell him he's not going to be charged, he seemed to be worried about it."

"You could call him. It would be a more efficient use of your time, Coulson."

"That's probably what I'll do."

"Right. That's why you're smoothing your hair and fixing your tie."

Phil froze, lowering his traitorous hands to his desk.

Jasper shook his head and leaned closer with a quick glance around. The bullpen was almost empty, but not completely.

"Be careful, Coulson. You don't know anything about him other than he's hot, he flirts, and he's got a great ass he shakes for a living. Don't get all offended on me, it's true. If you wanted to hook up with him, that'd be fine. But I know you, and that's not what you want, and if you want to... date him or whatever, you're gonna have to deal with it. And you'll have to deal with the shit you get from the assholes on the squad."

Phil snorted. "Think I can handle that by now."

He'd been getting shit from the assholes on the force since he'd entered the academy as an openly gay cadet. Most of it stayed behind his back now, once he'd taken down a couple of mouthbreathers to prove he could defend himself -- but not all of it.

"Coulson, he's a stripper, and you met him on a case. That's like every bad cop cliche ever."

"There is no case. No charges filed, on either side, and Jesus, Sitwell, I don't know why you care -- he's probably not even interested, even if I were -- "

"He watched your ass as you left Interview, and he wasn't even subtle about it."

Phil blinked at him, shocked, and Jasper laughed and shook his head again. "Just... be careful. You're supposed to watch my back out there, and you can't do it if you're all tangled up over Clint Barton's ass."

Phil bristled, and Sitwell grinned and held up a hand before he could say anything. "Kidding, man. You know I trust you to watch my six."

He grabbed his coat. "I'm gone. Fifteen hours of sleep sounds amazing. Orgasmic. And speaking of that, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Phil was still completely flummoxed by the conversation, and what Jasper had revealed, but he found it in him to grin and say, "Sitwell, if I play my cards right, _everything_ I'll do is something you wouldn't do."

He laughed at the look on his partner's face -- the man didn't know whether to look disgusted or amused. "God, Coulson. Keep the sordid details to yourself, all right?"

He left and Phil stared after him, lost in thought.

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

It wasn't until he was in the car with his key in the ignition that Phil remembered Stark's words from the week before about Barton taking time off. It was possible the man wasn't even working tonight. Phil sighed.

He could look into Barton's file, pull out the cell phone number he'd given, and call him to tell him the news, but he didn't know if that was more or less of an invasion of privacy than going to see him at the club.

Both actions skirted the very edge of professionalism, and the fact that that didn't bother Phil more showed him just how far into this he was.

He hadn't been able to get Clint Barton out of his head for a week.

And it wasn't just his looks or his body -- Phil had seen plenty of gorgeous men, and if that was all it was, he'd have been able to go home, jerk off thinking of the man, and forget about him forever.

Something about Barton had found its way under Phil's skin, and he couldn't seem to get over it.

It was the determination in his eyes as he'd defended his actions, the sullen resignation that surrounded him when he'd believed that nothing he said would matter, the cautious suspicion in his eyes when he finally realized that things might be different this time.

He'd flirted with Phil -- it hadn't been so long since it had happened last that Phil had forgotten when flirting looked like -- and there was the way he'd looked at him a couple of times -- frank interest and assessment in those piercing eyes. Add to that what Jasper had said, and Phil was more tied up in knots than ever.

Phil sighed and pulled out his case notes, quickly finding the number for the club. He could, in a professional capacity, stop by Barton's workplace to give him the news. If Barton seemed at all interested in... forming an acquaintance, well, they'd take it from there.

"Iron Men."

The greeting was loud, underscored with the deep throb of pounding music.

"Is Clint Barton working tonight?"

"Who? Oh, Hawk! Yeah, his shift starts in an hour."

"Thank you."

"What?"

"Thanks!"

"No problem, man."

There was a click, and Phil thumbed his phone's lock and slipped it into his pocket.

An hour. That gave him time to grab some dinner.

And maybe some coffee, he thought with a yawn, because the hundred hour work week was starting to catch up with him.

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

The club's parking lot was even more well-lit than it had been the previous weekend, and Phil could see some changes to the employee lot in the back -- a small, manned security shack, and it looked as though preparations were being made to fence it in.

Inside, it was full but not crowded, the interior clean and done up invitingly in shades of red and gold with chrome accents that flashed in the lights from the stage.

He and Sitwell had come earlier in the week to take statements from a few of the employees, and the man at the host stand recognized him, nodding with a polite smile and curiosity in his eyes. Phil nodded back and pushed further into the club, heading for the bar.

The crowd was a mix of men and women -- mostly men -- all ages and personalities. There were a few couples scattered here and there among the flirty twinks and the wide-eyed college boys who stared rapt at the stage. The bar was filled with tired businessmen in rumpled suits and crooked ties who seemed to be paying more attention to their drinks than the expanse of flesh on display on the stage. Phil glanced down at himself, pleased to see that he looked decently put-together despite the long work week. His suit was a little limp, but his tie was unwrinkled and his shirt was clean.

It was still early, and he knew the club would only get more crowded as the night went on.

He made his way to the bar, where the bartender he knew was named Bucky was mixing drinks and flirting, not letting his prosthetic arm stop him from adding a little flair to his routine. A customer shouted something, and he laughed, blue eyes twinkling, before he turned to Phil.

"What can I get -- oh, hey, Detective Coulson, right?"

Phil nodded, smiled politely. "That's right."

"What can I getcha?"

He wasn't on duty, but he was driving, and he was exhausted. He'd have one drink.

"Scotch on the rocks," he said after a moment, and Barnes nodded.

"Is there any way I can get a moment to speak with Mr. Barton? It isn't urgent; there's no rush."

Barnes tossed a napkin on the bar, plunked a tumbler on it, and slid it toward Phil. "You could always ask for a private dance," he said with a wink. Phil stared back, unfazed.

"Perhaps next time," he said blandly, and Barnes laughed.

"I'll have someone tell Hawk you're here," he said.

"I appreciate it," Phil said, taking a sip of his drink, which Barnes had poured generously.

The scotch was smooth as it slid warmly down his throat, and Phil blinked in surprise. It was definitely closer to top-shelf than well-quality, and he glanced inquisitively at Barnes.

The man's smile was warm this time instead of flirty. "On the house. Hawk told us you took care of him, actually listened to him."

"I can't," Phil protested. "Really, I'm not allowed, and I didn't do anything any good cop wouldn't have done."

Barnes snorted. "Those words ain't exactly synonymous around here, Detective," he said wryly. A customer called from the other end of the bar, and he glanced over. "Excuse me. Hawk's up next, but I'll have someone let him know you're here."

He slid away before Phil could protest, without leaving a bill.

Phil sighed and nursed his drink, paying halfhearted attention to the stage.

The man up now could dance, certainly, and he was good-looking, but he was a kid. Phil watched absently, his mind once again working over the puzzle of Clint Barton.

He thought of Barnes' words, and the hints in Barton's behavior of past dealings with police and the law.

Phil had run him -- he wasn't proud of it, but he'd had to know at least a little bit about the man's past. He took his job very seriously, and as intriguing as Clint was, Phil wouldn't have allowed himself to even think of starting anything if the man had been a felon.

Luckily, he wasn't. He had a sheet, a long one, stretching back to a sealed juvenile record, but it consisted of nothing but a litany of misdemeanors. It was clear the man hadn't led an easy life.

Phil had never gone for bad boys -- he'd decided he wanted to be a policeman at five and had never wavered in his goal -- and it wasn't the bad boy in Clint that appealed to him. He clearly remembered the resignation in the man's eyes, the way his body language had screamed _not again_ , how he'd defended himself without aiming to injure the man that had attacked him.

Jasper was right -- Phil didn't know anything about the man. But he wanted to.

The crowd whooped and clapped and cheered as the dancer on stage finished with a flourish and a laughing bow. He bent provocatively to pick up the tips along the edge of the stage, winking at a couple who were sitting practically in each other's laps, then dancing backward and shaking at his finger at a clearly-sloshed businessman who reached for him. With a wave, he jogged offstage, pale skin gleaming in the stage lights.

The stage lights dimmed as the music went down in volume and switched to something generically techno, and conversation buzzed in the room. Phil sipped his scotch, amazed to hear the ice clink gently against the side of his glass. His hand wasn't completely steady -- and his heart was racing.

He could tell himself everything in the world about how he wanted to get to know the man, but there was a reason he was standing here, drink in hand, eyes fixed on the empty stage, and it wasn't because it was the most convenient place to wait for a moment or two to talk to Barton.

"All right, boys and girls," the emcee hollered over the PA, "Let's give it up for Hawk!"

The crowd exploded into whistles, cheers, and stomps, and Phil glanced around in shock. It was clear there were a ton of regulars here, and they knew what to expect.

The lights went up and the music rose, thumping loudly, full of bass and drums that throbbed like a heartbeat.

Phil's breath caught in his throat as Clint backflipped his way onto the stage, burnished hair gleaming in the lights. He was barefoot, in dark pants and a simple buttoned shirt, and his remarkable eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviators. His grin was cocky and somehow enigmatic, magnetic.

He was absolutely gorgeous.

The way he moved was sinuous and electrifying, all heat and liquid sex. He stretched and spun, hips never still, muscles bunching and flexing, lithe strength and coiled power.

His fingertips slid seductively over his body, head thrown back, body arched wantonly as he slowly teased the buttons of his shirt open one by one.

Languidly, he peeled the tight shirt off, seemingly oblivious of the howling crowd at the foot of the stage. The tight white shirt underneath clung to his pecs and abs, showcasing his broad shoulders and incredible arms. Tanned skin glistened in the stage lights, toned flesh rippling invitingly as he danced.

His hands skated down his abs, pausing at his waist, and he laughed, joyously, as the crowd lost their minds.

Flicking open the top button of his fly, he stopped there, smirking arrogantly when shouts of protest filled the air.

Someone fell heavily into Phil's back, slurring an apology and making him stagger. It knocked him out of the hypnotic state he'd been in, and he took in a shaky breath.

His heart was pounding with the music, and he was shaking with need, and as he watched Clint -- no, Hawk, this was Hawk -- flick open another button, he realized he wanted this man more than he'd wanted anything in a very long time.

And that was the problem. Manufacturing that desire was Clint's job. This wasn't real. It was a show, and everyone in this room felt exactly the same as he did -- they _all_ wanted Clint.

No. They wanted Hawk. Phil didn't know _what_ he wanted. He didn't know what the hell he was doing here.

He turned his back on the stage to head for the door, resolutely not looking back as the room exploded once more into cheers.

He set his half-empty glass on the bar, tucking a twenty under it, and moved through the now packed room, ignoring Barnes as he tried to catch Phil's attention.

The night air was brisk and cool after the heat of the club, and Phil paused, taking a couple of bracing breaths. Even from out here, he could hear the cheers and howls that must have signaled the end of Clint's dance.

He was halfway to the car when his phone rang. He answered it absently.

"Coulson."

"You left before the big finish."

Clint was breathless, his voice a seductive rasp, and Phil nearly stumbled at the realization that Clint had seen him -- noticed him among the crowd even with the stage lights in his eyes.

"Mr. Barton," he said, praying his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

"Detective Phillip J. Coulson," Clint said, amusement in his voice, clearly reading the business card Phil had given him. "Are you a Phil or a Phillip, Detective Phillip J?"

"Phil."

"And what does the J stand for, honey? Or is that a secret?"

Phil was a detective, a damn good one, and his observational skills were off the charts, even when he was tied up in knots. And yes, Clint's voice was seductive and alluring and playful, but it was also... calculating.

"What are you doing, Mr. Barton?" he asked coolly.

There was a pause, and Phil continued toward his car.

" _You_ came to see _me_ , Detective," Clint answered, and that playful lilt was gone. His voice was flat, a hint of wariness in it now. "You go first."

Phil took a deep breath. Clint -- Barton -- was right. Phil was the one flailing in confusion here, and it wasn't fair to take it out on the other man.

"I came to tell you that Laufeyson is back in Asgard. No charges will be filed, on either side, and the case is closed."

Barton's sigh of relief was quiet, but still audible.

"You could've called to tell me that," he said after a moment, humor back in his voice, but it seemed genuine this time.

Phil rubbed the back of his neck. "Could've, yes. Probably should've. Would've been more professional."

"Do I wreak a little havoc with your sense of professionalism, Detective?"

Phil chuckled. "To say the least. But that's your job, isn't it, Mr. Barton?"

There was another pause, and this one seemed... wounded.

"Guess so," Barton said eventually.

"Did you need something, Mr. Barton?"

"I just... I just wanted to find out why you left," he replied quietly.

"I can't believe you even noticed me in that crush."

"I noticed you, Detective. Had my eyes on you the whole time."

There was no flirty coyness in his voice this time -- there was nothing but honesty. Phil turned and leaned against his car, staring back at the brightly lit club.

"Why?" he asked. "Of all the men -- and women -- in that club, why search for me?"

Barton's laugh was a little broken, and it hurt to hear.

"You -- you and your partner, you two were the only ones that whole night who treated me like a human being. Everyone else saw a criminal, or a whore, someone worthless, but you saw me. You talked to me. You _listened_ to me. Do you know how rare that is?"

Phil closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Barton -- "

"Clint, dammit," he interrupted fiercely. "I'm _Clint_. Not Mr. Barton, and not Hawk. Not right now."

"Then I'm Phil. Not Detective."

"It doesn't hurt that you're cute, Phil, and you got a great ass."

Phil laughed, embarrassed.

"But... you left. Too much, huh? The whole thing. Knowing I dance is one thing, but seeing it..."

Resignation was clear in his voice, and Phil could practically hear him shrug.

"It's okay," Clint added after a moment. "I get it. It's not the first time -- "

Phil swallowed harshly. "Clint, I -- seeing you dance was incredible. You're gorgeous up there. But... that's not you up there. That's Hawk."

"Hawk _is_ me, Phil. You can't separate us, and this is what I do. So if that's not gonna work for you..."

"I don't -- I don't know. I've never been in anything like this situation, and we don't know anything about each other, Clint. But I'd like to change that."

"You can't go into this thinking I'm going to change, Phil. This is what I do, and who I am."

"I hear you, Clint. I do."

He laughed. "Yeah, I think you do. That's what _you_ do, and you're good at it. I'm gonna have to go here, Phil."

"Time for round two?"

"Soon. You coming back in?"

Phil stifled a yawn. "Sorry. It's been a helluva week," he said, and it wasn't even a lie.

"All right. Coffee sometime, maybe?"

"Are you free for lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Clint said after a moment, sounding stunned. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Great. I'll call you around noon?"

"It's a date. I've gotta go. G'night, Detective Phillip J. Coulson."

Phil laughed. "Good night, Clint. And knock 'em dead in there, Hawk."

"Always do," he said, and hung up laughing.

Phil stared at the lights, took in the noise, and just breathed for a moment. He had no idea where this might be going, but he couldn't wait to find out.

**END**


End file.
